


i long and seek after

by iphigenias



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 18:02:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6339718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iphigenias/pseuds/iphigenias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Much better,” Izzy says softly, giving Clary another heart-stopping smile before leaving the store as quickly as she had come. Clary’s knees wobble and she can’t contain a silly, stupid smile from stretching across her lips. The gardenias in the corner sigh happily.</p><p>“Oh, shut up, you,” Clary tells them, but she’s still smiling, so they don’t take her seriously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i long and seek after

**Author's Note:**

> i?????? don't even know what this is. i wanted a fic where alec and clary were friends, and then this happened. smh @ myself, honestly
> 
> anyway, this is set in a universe where some people have what they call a "spark", basically a kind of magic to do with one specific thing e.g. clary and alec can both communicate with plants and help them grow. sparks manifest differently, and though not everyone has them, everyone knows about them. that's basically it!!
> 
> title is from sappho's fragment 36, translated by anne carson. this fic is like half clizzy and half malec but it's narrated by clary so i'm using sappho /parkours away

Clary likes to help things grow. _It’s all in the wrist_ , she tells her customers, fingers lighting up green at the edges like so many fireflies. _You have to mean it; you have to feel it from here._ Hand, reaching out; resting against the ribcage of the woman closest to her, feeling that butterfly thump of her heart. _It’s not easy_ , she tells them, a lie, because how could they understand the ease of this for her? How could they know the feeling of a blooming gardenia like a wildfire of pins and needles, spreading through muscle and tissue and reaching her brain, a gentle buzz? How can they look at her green-tipped fingers and think, _of course, it all makes sense now_?

So she tells them, _it’s not easy,_ and lets her hand fall from the ribcage and hide behind her back, curling into itself like a dying rose, dripping petals like a leaking faucet onto the rich, loamy soil beneath her feet.

It’s a Thursday, and Clary’s alone in the store. She likes it this way; likes the soft silence, a blanket around her, the gentle trickle of the fountain in the corner, and the way she can almost hear the plants growing, stretching their roots below and their stems above, itching for the sunlight let in through the glass roof of the greenhouse. When Clary’s alone, she talks to the plants, coaxes them; it’s not all in the wrist, after all. The leaves yearn for her voice, reach forward until they tickle the tip of her nose, and she laughs, fingers lighting up green at the edges and helping the rosebushes bloom.

The bell over the door announces an entry. “Sorry I’m late,” Alec says, dumping his bag behind the counter and crouching down next to Clary beside a hydrangea. “Izzy wouldn’t let me out of the house without promising to go shopping with her tonight.” Clary laughs, watches his hands as he reaches out to stroke the leaves. He has big hands, almost twice the size of Clary’s, with long, thin fingers calloused from years spent outdoors. When his fingertips light up, their green is deeper than Clary’s, darker, almost like the colour of the ocean after a storm. His spark is gentler, too, not helping the plants grow like Clary’s but healing them, soothing them, brushing away mottled brown spots on their leaves and smoothing out the curled-in petals of dying flowers until they’re whole again. It’s probably why they work so well together, complementing each other, putting the finishing touches where the other can’t. Clary hides a smile into the wool of her cardigan but Alec catches it and smiles back, soft and aching.

“I’m sure you two will take Macy’s by storm,” Clary tells him, laughing again as he rolls his eyes. She’s never met Izzy, not through lack of trying; their paths have simply never crossed, and Alec is by definition a private person. He hasn’t met her friends, either. They don’t exactly move in the same circles, for which Clary is often thankful. Sometimes it’s nice to have someone apart from everyone else, and it doesn’t hurt that they share the same spark. Sometimes he feels like the brother she never had.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Alec replies, rolling his eyes again, before changing the subject.

 

*

 

The day passes in a similar fashion, without much fanfare. _It’s all in the wrist_ , Clary tells her customers, trying to keep a straight face as Alec snorts from somewhere behind the counter. Four o’clock rolls around and she and Alec wind down, saying their goodbyes to the plants and locking up the store as they leave. Alec lingers by a dying fern, and by the time he catches up with Clary its leaves look healthy again, upright, almost proud. Clary gives Alec a fond look, to which he simply wraps a scarf around his neck and pulls a face. Clary blinks.

“Since when do you wear scarves?” she teases, walking alongside him down the avenue towards the subway. Alec shrugs, and in the dusky light of an autumn evening it’s hard to tell, but she could’ve sworn that he blushes, cheeks turning a pale pink like the petals of the hydrangea he’d healed this morning.

“It was a gift,” is all he says, and refuses to elaborate, giving Clary an awkward wave goodbye as they part for different platforms. She rolls her eyes at his retreating back, and heads towards the train that will take her home.

 

*

 

The next morning Alec is late again. Clary doesn’t mind – it’s not like they get outrageously busy, after all – but it is unusual behaviour for a guy who always tries to show up early, just in case.

Maybe about half an hour after opening, the doorbell jingles. Clary glances over her shoulder, teasing rebuke ready on her lips, but it’s not Alec standing in the doorway.

Clary’s heart gives a funny little flip-flop, and the sunflowers she’s tending to give a happy little wriggle. “Shush,” she scolds them, hoping her cheeks aren’t embarrassingly red, and rises to her feet to greet the customer.

“Is Alec here?” she woman says before Clary can get a word in. “He should be here because he’s never late, but clearly he isn’t so my guess is that something’s up.” She gives Clary a dazzling smile and holds out her hand to shake. “You must be Clary! I’m Izzy. Alec’s my incorrigible brother, I’m afraid.”

“Oh!” Clary smiles, and shakes the proffered hand. “Alec’s told me a lot about you. I’ve been wanting to meet you for ages.”

“Really?” Izzy gives Clary a long and languid once-over, and Clary feels warm all over. “Well. It’s always nice to know when your reputation precedes you. Don’t worry,” she continues, glancing around the shop with a small smile on her face, “He’s told me a lot about you too.” She wiggles her fingers, the tips lighting up a soft lilac, and a pleasant breeze whooshes through the store, flapping Clary’s ponytail behind her like the sail on a ship. “That’s better. It was a little stuffy in here, don’t you think?”

“Our cooling system’s broken,” Clary says lamely, tucking her hands into the pockets of her overalls. “I’ve been meaning to get it fixed.”

“Well, as long as I’m here I guess there’s no rush.” Izzy gives Clary a wink. “Could you do me a favour? When Alec does show up, tell him I was looking for him, and to give me a call. We haven’t properly hung out in _ages._ ” Clary frowns a little. Didn’t they go shopping together last night? Izzy abruptly reaches out a hand and smooths the frown from Clary’s forehead. Her fingertips are still glowing a gentle purple, and are pleasantly cool to the touch. Clary swallows. The leaves on the rosebush behind her give a delighted shuffle. “Much better,” Izzy says softly, giving Clary another heart-stopping smile before leaving the store as quickly as she had come. Clary’s knees wobble and she can’t contain a silly, stupid smile from stretching across her lips. The gardenias in the corner sigh happily.

“Oh, shut up, you,” Clary tells them, but she’s still smiling, so they don’t take her seriously.

 

*

 

Alec ends up arriving maybe twenty minutes after Izzy leaves, almost a full hour late. He’s wearing another scarf that he doesn’t take off when he enters the store, despite the mugginess of the greenhouse. Clary’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

“What was it this time?” she asks him, trying to coax a shy agapanthus from the soil. It doesn’t want to budge, and she gives up with a huff of exasperation. Sometimes it really isn’t all in the wrist.

“Izzy and I stayed out late last night, and I had to drive her to work this morning,” Alec says convincingly, shrugging off his bag and dropping it behind the counter like always.

“ _Really,_ ” Clary says, not exactly a question. Alec won’t meet her eyes. She has a decision to make here: she could either confront Alec about his lie right now, or let it slide and do some good old-fashioned detective work.

She’s always been a sucker for Sherlock Holmes.

“We have a customer coming in to pick up an order this morning; make sure it’s all ready for her when she arrives, would you?” Alec seems surprised – and suspiciously relieved – at the sudden change of topic, but doesn’t complain. Clary bites her lip as she turns back to her unwilling agapanthus, mind going a mile a minute. Sometimes, all that’s needed is a little _push._ She just has to find the right moment to give it.

 

*

 

Clary follows Alec home. Maybe it isn’t the most skilful method of finding out the truth, but it is going to be the quickest, and when Clary thinks of Izzy and her caramel-brown skin, legs that go on for miles and smile that makes her heart go bump in her chest ( _like Edgar Allen Poe_ , Clary thinks giddily), she knows that she’ll do anything to see that smile again.

So she follows Alec home. It’s almost laughably easy, because Alec seems to be preoccupied and doesn’t pay the slightest attention to his surroundings. He keeps tugging at his scarf, too, not like he wants to take it off but almost like he’s holding a lifeline, flung out to him as he drowns in some far-distant sea. Clary follows him onto the F train, one carriage down, and waits. Her spark itches at her fingertips like it always does when she’d underground; almost like the immense weight and mass of the metal and brick surrounding her is too much for her to handle. Idly, she wonders if Alec feels the same. If he’s never truly at peace until he’s somewhere green and open, where the grass goes on for miles and the sky is as cornflower blue as his eyes.

Lost in thought, Clary almost misses when Alec gets off the train. It’s not his usual stop, she realises as she squeezes out the closing doors just in time. This station is nowhere near his apartment, and as far as she knows it isn’t near Izzy’s either. Up ahead, Alec pulls the scarf tighter around his neck and heads for the escalator. Clary pulls her hood up (she’s seen _Criminal Minds,_ okay?) and follows him.

It’s a short walk from the station to Alec’s destination, and the crowds are thick so it’s easy for Clary to slip through unnoticed. When Alec veers off into a side street and heads confidently towards the buzzer for one of those fancy converted loft apartments, Clary has the abrupt realisation that she knows exactly where she is. In fact, she’s been here before – in the very apartment Alec is waiting outside of.

Just as he’s buzzed up and heading through the unlocked door, he unwinds his scarf from his neck and Clary recognises the unmistakeable shape of a hickey against his skin. And she knows exactly who gave it to him.

Clary tucks her hands inside her pockets and heads off back in the direction of the subway, spark tingling at her fingertips and mind reeling with the fact that Alec Lightwood – uptight, punctual, no-nonsense Alec Lightwood, with a quiet and soft green spark in his fingers – is dating Magnus Bane.

This is _way_ more exciting than Sherlock Holmes.

 

*

 

Of course, when Clary finally gets home and says hello to the ivy creeping around her doorframe, she realises she has no way to contact Izzy with what she’s found. Clary could kick herself. It would’ve been the perfect excuse to ask for her phone number!

The ferns hanging from the ceiling seem to sense her annoyance as they reach out with their long, delicate fronds, brushing her shoulders and seeming to ask her what’s wrong. She sighs. “Maybe it’s a good thing I don’t have her number,” she tells the ferns, and they rustle in confusion. “I suppose it wouldn’t be right to break Alec’s trust like that. Better to confront him about it tomorrow when I have all the facts. After all, there may be a reason he hasn’t told Izzy about Magnus.” The fronds shiver in agreement. Clary reaches out and runs her fingers along their prickly stems. “Magnus. Can you believe this?” The daisies on her windowsill shake their heads in disbelief. “I almost felt _guilty_ for not introducing Alec to my friends and it turns out he’s screwing one of them! And _Magnus_ , of all people? It’s—” Clary stops herself. The flowers whisper to each other. She really shouldn’t be the one to pass judgement on their relationship. And in fact, now that she thinks of it, maybe they would go well together. Alec, gentle and soft and green, and Magnus, vibrant and loud and electric blue. Clary even thinks she’s mentioned Alec to Magnus on one of their coffee dates, and Magnus had made that considering sound of his and tilted his head to the side like he was really thinking about what Clary was saying. Or maybe he was just considering stealing a cup of coffee from the Starbucks down the street, fingertips lit up blue as they warped reality and left Clary with a headache like always.

The fern fronds brush through her hair and Clary gives them a comforting pat. “It’ll be okay. I’ll figure something out.” The daisies dip their heads and Clary bustles off to make some tea.

 

*

 

Surprisingly, given that Clary is now aware of his whereabouts in the mornings, Alec isn’t late to work the next day. He actually arrives before she does, and is standing outside the shopfront when Clary turns the corner, coffee in hand. “I should really get you a key,” she tells him, fumbling with her own for a moment before slotting it inside. “I guess I’m the one who’s late this morning, huh?”

Alec’s cheeks colour and he ducks his head like he does when he’s embarrassed. He’s wearing another scarf today, a soft blue that Clary would swear on her father’s grave (actually no, not on his, the dickhead) Magnus was wearing the last time she saw him. She hides her smile in her own scarf (knitted, ugly, comforting) and holds the door open so he can step inside.

Saying hello to the plants is a ritual for them in the mornings. Clary’s fine with doing it by herself, of course, but somehow Alec being with her makes it better. The flowers crane their heads to his touch, even when his spark is dormant and his fingers are their usual colour. It makes Clary smile to see.

Eventually though, all the hellos have been said, and Alec is still wearing his scarf as he sets up behind the counter. Patience has never been one of Clary’s virtues.

“So. Alec.” She decides to get it over with quickly. “How come you never told me you were dating Magnus Bane?”

The effect of the words is almost instantaneous. Alec miraculously manages to trip while standing still, and when he regains his balance his face is beet red and he won’t meet Clary’s eyes.

“Um. I’m not. We’re – not dating?” He chances a glance at Clary and is met with folded arms and a no-nonsense expression. Alec sighs. “Yeah, okay. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you, it’s just that it’s kind of new, and I’ve never really been in a proper relationship before – and when I met him and he told me he knew you I thought he’d be the one to tell you, but he never did and I guess – I just didn’t either. I’m sorry.” The gardenias rest their heads against Alec’s forearm, and he strokes them with the now-green tips of his other hand. Clary sighs. It’s impossible to stay mad at Alec for too long – especially when he’s like this, all contrite and apologetic with those puppy eyes she’s never been able to resist.

“Well, maybe you should think about telling that to your sister, since she’s been wondering where you get off to lately.” Clary wiggles her eyebrows and Alec groans.

“You are insufferable,” he mutters, but he’s smiling, and the gardenias sigh at his touch.

 

*

 

Alec goes home early that day. Clary forces him to, so he has time to catch up with his sister before heading off to his nightly rendezvous with Magnus. She’s just closing up the shop, twisting the key into the lock and absently thinking that she really _should_ get a copy made for Alec, when she hears a familiar _click-clack_ of heels against the footpath beside her. Her spark gives an electric jolt.

“So I hear I have you to thank for my brother coming clean,” Izzy Lightwood says, looking as immaculate and perfect and unattainable as ever. Clary meets her eyes and Izzy beams, like a thousand-watt light bulb turned up to maximum brightness. It’s dazzling. She wonders if this is how Magnus feels when he looks at Alec (after all, the Lightwoods have unfairly perfect genes).

“It was no problem,” Clary finds herself saying. “I don’t think he meant to keep it from you anyway, it just sort of happened that way.”

Izzy shrugs. “Well, whatever the reason, you were the one who convinced him to tell me. So thank you.” Her smile, if anything, brightens; Clary is looking into the sun. She can feel a blush working its way across her cheeks as she glances away.

A gentle hand on her chin guides her gaze back to Izzy’s, who is still smiling, warm and soft and real like good soil after rain. “Much better,” she whispers, barely audible against the sound of New York traffic, but at the same time the loudest words Clary’s ever heard, almost like they’re reverberating through her whole body. Izzy leans in, teetering, as if unsure of how Clary will react; when their lips meet, Clary feels the kiss all the way from her fingertips to her toes.

And inside the shop, locked away behind panes of glass and the wooden door frame, the rosebushes give a happy sigh: _finally_ , they seem to say, but for once, Clary doesn’t bother to listen.


End file.
